


Feed Your God

by Elfgrunge



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: A study on the powers and their impacts on unwilling avatars I did a couple of months ago!, Each chapter is about each of them, Gen, They never interact
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2021-01-31 09:40:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21444133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfgrunge/pseuds/Elfgrunge
Summary: To think, to feel, to process,burned. Each new idea, concept, thought he tried to grapple for, to catch purchase on for the briefest moment, cindered under the gaze of something that was no longer a part of him.‘Feed your God before it feeds on You’
Relationships: Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood (implied)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 27





	1. Chapter 1

To think, to feel, to process,_ burned_. Each new idea, concept, thought he tried to grapple for, to catch purchase on for the briefest moment, cindered under the gaze of something that was no longer a part of him. 

_‘Feed your God before it feeds on You’_

It allowed him some things, of course, fleeting bits of knowledge that it deigned to let him have. It was not a mercy. He knew what a stomach does when hungry, truly ravenous and starved of anything that could feed its only primal urge to feast. 

So it turns it’s acid on itself, and begins to consume from the inside out. 

_‘̸F̷e̴e̷d̶ ̵y̷o̸u̴r̵ ̶G̶o̶d̴ ̶b̸e̶f̷o̸r̶e̷ ̷i̴t̶ ̵f̷e̶e̴d̴s̸ ̵o̴n̵ ̵Y̶o̴u̷’̷_

There were things he knew he should know. A face in his mind, half shadowed, dark skin laughing and dimpled at a joke he did not know but was sure, if he made it, it couldn’t have been that funny. She laughed anyway. He missed her, whoever she was.

_‘̶̰͐F̸̬̄e̴̟͆ẻ̶̞d̴͚ ̸̧̐y̸͙̏o̶̡̕ủ̷̹r̶̡̃ ̵̩͘G̸̺̕ö̷̭́d̴̨͝ ̷̠͐b̷̛̯e̶͚͆f̶̧̕o̷̘̕r̵̦̈́e̷͍̚ ̸̗̏i̷̡͑t̶͂͜ ̵̰͝f̵̜̆é̶̳e̸̘͗d̶͔s̵͓͠ ̷̪̈́ö̸͚n̷̮̓ ̵͓̎Y̸͕̕o̶͚͋ų̴͛’̷͖̕_

There was a cold shock now, ice shooting through the husk of his brain as it pulled on threads of fear in a scathing, deliberate juxtaposition. A hand running down his face, stiff and yet moving, fingers trailing along his jaw though he writhed as much as the ropes would allow him. The Thing That Knew relished as his breathing grew heavy, though he could not tell if that was true of the past, the present, or both. 

He was grateful when that memory slipped away, sand between fingers that no longer grasped but let it flow in tired apathy. 

_‘̴̰̥̈́̿F̴̼̽e̶̺̼̍e̴͎̓͛d̶̳ ̷̍͜y̵̺̺͋̆o̵̧͇̊ủ̴͉r̶̡̝̓ ̶̭̩̊G̶̹̈́̎ǫ̵̟͆d̴͕̒ ̵͎̱̆͘b̵̼̺̒͛e̵̫̋̈́f̴̫͍͊͌ȯ̷̧̮̍r̶̖̰̉͂ë̶̜̥́ ̴̺̐̋i̷͈͑͒t̵͖̬̑͑ ̸̢̫́f̶̢͋ę̶͝e̶͔͖͊͘d̵̘̔͜s̷̩̠͐ ̶̳͊o̴͔̘͑̍n̷̞̏͠ ̷͖͑ͅẎ̸̯̚o̵͔̅͝ủ̴͔’̷̼̪̋̈́_

There was a bittersweet nature to the last of them, the ocean almost drained, with nothing but the dregs to be dredged up from the floor. 

A smile.   
Not like the… something, of before. He was going to compare it to _something. _  
Whatever it was, it wasn’t like that.   
It was soft, subtle, as if glanced out of the corner of one eye. But he saw All, didn’t he? Used to.   
It told of things unsaid, of promises unmade and unable to cut through air thick with tension and fear and loss and grief but there nonetheless behind both their eyes. 

He couldn’t imagine what those eyes looked like, now.   
He thinks he used to glance into pools as blue and clear as the ocean, like the sky had puddled into one affectionate look.   
Maybe they were a honeyed brown, his rattling mind contradicts, warm and rich like you could get lost in them, offsetting freckles that may or may not have scattered across flushed cheeks.   
Or they could have been green, verdant like a forest, new life, and hope, and always full of so much damn hope… until he wasn’t. And who’s fault was that. He can’t recall. 

_‘̷̜̹͝F̶̘̑͒ě̷̤̗͎͛̃e̴̘̐̃d̴̝̲̔̊ ̵̥̣̱̃̒y̸̹̖̌o̷̯̭͛̚ư̷͉̼͎r̴͖̰͝ ̴̧͔͒G̷͍̈́͛ǒ̴̩̪̈́͂d̵̹̯̓̏̓͜ ̷̤̆b̶̝̞̲͊e̵̮͔̔f̸͕͌͒̕ȯ̴̩͓̊ͅr̴̩̥̜͋̓̿e̶̼̜͍̽̑̓ ̶̛̦i̸͙͛t̴̺̫̙͐ ̵̟̎͗̌f̴̲̿͒ĕ̴͍̭̕e̸̬̐̉ḍ̴͖̆s̷̭̀͂ ̴̖̕ơ̶̗̲̖̇̚ņ̶͙̇͑̊ ̴̪̳̜̒Ÿ̷̠̗̩́̌o̷̮͆̓͆u̶͒͂̇ͅ’̷̞̮̉͠_

The door has slammed, a rattle echoing behind it. There is nothing left and the sound reverberates, a pain behind his eyes that see so little that he nearly feels blind. 

The Archivist is gone now. It has taken what it wanted. A tale, a terror, a story, a _statement. _

Jonathan Sims is empty. 


	2. Chapter 2

Martin didn’t quite know when everything began to taste the same. On the occasions he did slip away to eat, it was nothing terribly exciting. Cheese sandwiches from the canteen, or tea from a little kettle kept in the corner of the office. But if he added a touch of honey, just to make sure he could register it as more than simply a necessary liquid, who was to be concerned. 

The office usually smelt like old wood and cleaning solution. He figured he’d just got used to it, become numb and inoculated, when it was no longer detectable. It’s not like he ever left, to see a flower and let it click. 

When the world becomes grayscale, it was a surprise and it was not. The lonely had taken so much from him, emotions wedged like foreign objects in his chest, still desperately clung to but feeling false, unnatural against the backdrop of serenity and fog that was becoming his head. 

The dampening of his senses was more a mercy than anything. Wading through hues was a distraction, and black and white was all a spreadsheet or statement were printed in anyway. 

The monotonous clack of the keyboard was all he heard most days, that and the static fizzle and pop of the creeping fog around him. It let him keep that. 

The lonely meant being alone, and so that is what he became. The office his own personal sensory deprivation tank. He hoped it was worth climbing in. 


End file.
